circa regna tonat
by SlashMyDreams
Summary: Following Edmund's assassination, the Pevensies fall apart. In desperation, Susan gets Aslan to bring him back. More trouble ensues.
1. Chapter 1

Title comes from the Thomas Wyatt poem. Thank you so much to cofax for the marvellous beta. Any remaining errors are entirely my fault.

This was written for the Narnia Big Bang over at livejournal, where sophiap did some wonderful art for this story.

* * *

"No, Peter," said the lion gravely, and Susan could see Peter clench his jaw out of the corner of her eye, and knew with heavy familiarity that it would hurt later. "No magic can bring back the dead."

"You returned," Susan countered, sharper than she would have usually dared, and stared intently at the jagged cut that ran straight through the middle of the Stone Table beneath Aslan's paws. They looked even softer in comparison, far too velvet for what she had seen them do.

"Yes," Aslan agreed sadly, "but it was not Deep Magic which killed your brother."

Susan knew it wasn't; could still see the remembered the dull flash of the assassin's blade swinging down in slow motion, and Edmund turning a moment too late, every time she closed her eyes.

She had not slept since then, and had heard, even through the thick stone walls, her sister's night-time cries.

The first time it had happened, she had knocked into Peter outside Lucy's door, and they had both shoved the door open, Susan's fingers already pulling back the taunt string on her smaller bow when she had realised that Lucy was the only person in the room, and then she had collapsed on one of the many chairs in the room, too relieved to even berate her.

"And our parents," Susan began, with a voice so thin it sounded like it belonged to someone else, and ignored her siblings' startled looks. "What will they think? What do they even know of our departure?"

"No one," said Aslan, bowing his head until he was on eye-level with her, "is ever told a story that it not fully their own, Daughter of Eve."

Out of the corner of his eye, Susan saw Peter flinch, and Lucy reached out for him with a clammy hand.

"But why, Aslan?" Lucy asked. Her voice shook.

It was curiously bizarre to hear her sister question him, and Susan realised with a start that she had never heard her do so, never heard one word of criticism from her sister's mouth about him, though she could be more brutal about foreign dignitaries than even Edmund.

"No one is ever told that either, dear one." Aslan replied, like that was any comfort at all, but he did not protest when Lucy stepped up to him and clutched at his mane with one hand, burrowing her face into it.

It was nowhere near as enthusiastic as it had been once; as if Lucy was simply going through the motions even with Aslan.

* * *

Lucy read Edmund's book without turning the pages, as if the imprint of his gaze was still etched into the rough letters, and if she stared long enough she could somehow bring him back. She had grown so used to injuries being reversible by her cordial that it had blindsided her even more than Susan or Peter.

"Do you think," Susan started, hesitating only when Lucy looked up, her eyes black holes in an ashen face, "that we'll ever get over it?"

"How can you say that?" Lucy jerked up and strode out of the room, her unread book left abandoned on the small table by the window. Susan watched her go, and thought she had lost more than just one sibling.

Peter didn't even bother to look up, "I think every memory stops hurting so much if you leave it for long enough."

"Peter," she said slowly, remembering the sun shining on Aslan's mane with a sudden flow of bitter hatred. "Do you remember our parents at all?"

"No, but I doubt they mattered much," he said, and she wondered whether one day, he would dismiss Edmund's memory as easily. Perhaps getting over tragedies wasn't a good idea. "Susan, we still have a country to run."

"I know," she answered dully, but she had been delaying matters of state for the past week. Tomorrow, she had to pass final judgement on a legal case Edmund had heard.

When Susan had first read the evidence, she had disagreed with his suggested solution. She still did, though she knew that come morning, she would order it all the same, because it had never been her decision to make.

She walked over to the window and wiped it dry with the edge of her sleeve. Outside the wind was howling, but the trees did not even twitch. They had not stirred since Edmund had –

Susan bit her lip and turned away, her eyes stinging.

Peter still hadn't moved, nor did he glance up when she left him alone to his hopeless plans of justice, and retribution, and closure. There was no space left for mercy anymore.

* * *

Later that day, Lucy asked, blankets dragged up to her chin, an empty sketchpad on her lap, "Were Adam and Eve our parents? I hardly remember them."

"I suppose they must have been." Peter agreed, frowning slightly. "They wouldn't call us that otherwise."

And Susan just stared at the freckles scattered across Lucy's nose, and thought helplessly of the wrong sibling.

* * *

The neighbouring countries had all sent wreaths of course, and careful condolences, but there was triumphant satisfaction in more than one ambassador's lowered eyes, and she heard some of them laugh too vibrantly for her taste as she crossed the courtyard.

When Susan turned around, there was no one there at all. She glanced up, and down, and around, but the sky was uncharacteristically empty and the stones were just stones.

The worst part was that there was a glint of that same mad triumph in some of their subjects' eyes, always fleeting enough to make her second-guess herself, yet constant all the same.

She walked back into the building, footsteps echoing on the stone steps, and stopped in surprise. The corridor was deserted, and the only sounds Susan could hear were her footsteps and her sister's laugh, somewhere around the corner. She hurried towards it, but Lucy had stopped any pretence at mirth.

"What do you mean he didn't say?" she was asking as Susan stopped just before the corner, and peeked around. Lucy's voice was dangerously low.

Her companion, a dwarf as thin as he was short, seemed to shrink back into himself. "We questioned him, Your Majesty, but he was not forthcoming."

"Well, of course, he didn't want to tell you," Lucy sighed. "But I had thought you were the best for," she hesitated, "extracting confessions, shall we say?"

"Indeed, Majesty, only," this time it was the dwarf who hesitated. "There have been… complications."

"What kind of complications?" Lucy asked, cold as steel.

"Unfortunately, the murderer did not survive the third stage."

Susan turned away, feeling distinctly queasy. Nonetheless, she heard Lucy's exclamation that the dwarf and his companions was supposed to know better.

"What did you do with the body?" asked the queen too brave to ever back down, the sister who would stop at nothing. Susan envied her conviction sometimes, though she did not wish for it.

She did not stay to hear the dwarf detail arrangements as little matched to the honourable Narnian funeral system as possible, apparently in the belief that this would make some difference to Aslan.

Instead, she went to the main audience chamber and took her seat next to her remaining brother, before giving the signal for the herald to open the heavy doors and announce the first business of the day.

It did not take long for a particularly dim-witted ambassador to propose an arranged marriage between Edmund and the Tisroc's oldest daughter, a Princess Reyhan, going as far as suggesting further discussion "once his Majesty has returned."

"Where from, my lord?" asked Peter, because enquiring whether someone had been living under a rock was insulting to the Talking Beasts who did. His expression had been getting gradually more thunderous with every word spoken, though he ambassador did not appear to have noticed.

"O, great High King of this most noble country, the illustrious Tash has not seen fit to bless this poor servant of the Tisroc (may he live for ever) with the whereabouts of so great a personage as your noble brother."

Susan beckoned a page and had the man escorted out of the audience chamber with a polite request to better acquaint himself with recent events before Peter could do something drastic. Then she closed court for the day, and their attendants hurried out, though the two of them continued to sit there, both next to an empty throne.

It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

* * *

"Do you think," Susan started later, reading the Calormene ambassador's letter of obsequious justification, "that Aslan could have prevented it?"

Peter looked over at Lucy, curled up on the windowsill and asleep for over an hour. "I don't think it matters. He didn't."

"But could he have done?" she persisted, because that made all the difference.

Most of the Narnians held Aslan in such high regard that to question his deeds seemed almost like blasphemy, but he had not come to help for a hundred years of suffering under the Witch's rule. Susan had always thought that merited some explanation, but had simply been informed that it was not her story to be told.

"Susan," he said bitterly, not even bothering to look at her. "Stop trying to be Edmund."

"I'm not!" But the thought nagged at her as she woke Lucy and then retired herself.

* * *

The following day, Susan finally lost her temper with Lord Peridan.

It started innocently enough; she had selected a random diplomat to send to the Lone Islands, and it could have easily been anyone else. But Peridan had been idle in Narnia for longer than any of the others, so Peridan it was.

She waited for over half an hour before sending for another servant, because Lucy claimed it took twenty minutes to shuffle slowly across the entire castle, and four to sprint it when the hallways were nearly empty and the run was clear and straight.

Arhen, his personal manservant, fidgeted when he finally stood in front of her, shifting from one foot to another the way Edmund used to when he was lying, back in England. "Unfortunately, your Majesty, my lord is indisposed."

"He seemed perfectly well this morning," Susan commented. "And therefore I suspect he is perfectly healthy now."

"The doors are all locked, your Majesty, and I must confess I have not seen his lordship since he dined with Lady Brinna at six."

Once, she could have gone to Edmund and known immediately, but now Susan could only sigh and send him away. She ended up leaning forward with one elbow perched against the wood, fingers trying in vain to rub away a headache, which felt like it had been slowly tearing her head apart all day.

* * *

Some time later, Susan got up and walked down the crumbling stone steps down onto the small sliver of beach near the castle, flicking off her shoes on the last one. The sand was rough between her toes, but still wet enough for her feet to sink down enough to leave a clear path for any who wished to follow her. Her guard lagged a few steps behind, ostensibly to give her privacy, in reality grumbling to themselves. Krisya hated the beach, and the constant roar of the waves in her ears, everything so soothingly familiar for Susan.

She arrived at the cave soon enough, a large cavern casting virtually no shadow at that time of day. A rather out-of-place door was hammered across the opening, somewhat haphazardly, the nails dented and broken.

There were small signs like that scattered all over Narnia, steady reminders of the Witch's long reign.

Whatever its appearance, or its difference to the castle at whose feet it perched, it was the home of the second – no, now the first-in-command of Narnia's intelligence service, and her information was worth a little occasional discomfort.

She knocked carefully, but did not bother to wait for a reply, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The water came up to her knees, a small and recent courtesy towards visitors. When Lucy had first come here, the water had covered her almost completely, leaving only the very top of her head peaking out.

"Queen Susan," said a voice from the depths, verging on respect. A long, scaly peaked out, its eyes heavily lidded.

"Good morning," Susan replied, then inquired into the whereabouts of Lord Peridan.

"On The House," said Madame Ness, who had been Edmund's second-in-command since merely two or three weeks following their coronation, when she'd surprised them at their swim. "Since eight o'clock."

_A whorehouse_, Susan realised, with a sudden burst of rage. _All this, and he still finds the time and inclination?_

Her nails dug into her palms, but she thanked the sea-serpent politely and exited almost calmly. Her guards were waiting outside, shivering in the piercingly cold wind.

"May I sug-gg-gest heading up to the castle now, Your Majesty?" one of them asked, her teeth chattering. She had come with excellent references, but being human did pose difficulties, though Susan could hardly have refused her on that basis.

For a long moment, Susan did not reply. Instead, she looked out into the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set, slashing bold colour against the murky depths of the water. The colour at the place where the two met was almost exactly the shade of Aslan's mane under the glow of firelight.

"Indeed," she said, but her voice sounded a long way away.

* * *

"We all have responsibilities, my lord, now more than ever. It is hardly the time for you to go gallivanting around as if you haven't a care in the world! If I look for you, I expect to find you near immediately, is that understood?"

"Your Majesty." He had inclined his head respectfully, but his mouth was pursed in harsh resentment. With a sudden spur of fear, Susan wondered whether he would be the next traitor in the night; or perhaps even secretly responsible for the first one. If he could only persuade his wealthy father that Edmund's demise would prove advantageous, he would easily have had access to scores of the finest known assassins.

Perhaps she shouldn't have chosen to send him away from Cair Paravel after all, though it would probably prove harder for him to plot away from the castle or the border.

_You have no proof_, she reminded herself sharply, but the doubts nagged at her all the same.

Lately, she and Peter had suspected everybody, running through seemingly endless lists of motives, even as some of their suspects walked the corridors outside.

Maybe they had lost more than just a sibling that night, but something invisible had been quietly ripped apart, and now they were lost, adrift in a world they were beginning to hate, trusting no one at all, not even each other.

_Did I wish for this, in some way,_ Susan sometimes asked herself at night, twisting and turning beneath suddenly too hot covers. _All those times we were annoyed at him, did we ever wish for this?_

If they had, it would have only been the careless spitefulness of children, _I hate you_ forgotten in a few hours, but maybe it had made Aslan, or the Emperor-Over-the-Sea, believe that they had meant it after all: maybe they were the ones truly responsible.

Perhaps it was all just their fault, and they were unworthy of the crowns Aslan had placed on their bowed heads.

* * *

Some days Susan almost expected Edmund to come strolling idly through an open doorway, with ink stains on his fingers and hair falling into his eyes.

She kept seeing him around corners, the way she had once seen her parents when the first humans had come to Cair Paravel; a flash of hair, or a glimmer of regal-looking fabric, or even a particular phrase, no matter how ordinary.

When she thought about it, she couldn't remember her parents clearly anymore, only faint memories of a plump woman with Edmund's eyes and a shaky smile, and a tall man with close-cut hair and a laugh which sounded as friendly as Lucy's no longer did.

So in hopes of preventing that from happening again, she wrote down endless lists of things she could still remember about her brother, and tried to ignore that certain statements kept repeating, and some thoughts were forgotten before she could set quill to parchment again.

"Oh," was all Lucy said when she found out, having come in unexpectedly to see Susan scribbling frantically, her writing un-regally messy. Then, "Why?"

_Because it's the only thing I can do now_, Susan thought, but she wasn't used to admitting weakness, not even to her siblings. "In case I forget, that's all."

"I don't think we'll ever forget," said her sister, with all the idealism not yet fully knocked out of her by experience. "I don't think we ever could."

Susan had once thought they couldn't ever forget their parents, stuffed on a busy train and spat out at in the middle of nowhere. And yet, it hadn't been long after their coronations when she had stopped being able to visualise the Professor's face, or the precise shape and function of a gas mask.

* * *

"Lune could have done it," said Peter when he returned from his ridiculous, though thankfully rather short, conquest of Ettinsmoor. Both Lucy and Susan had pleaded with him, to no avail, that the giants weren't intelligent enough to purchase an assassin who could murder a monarch, at which point Peter had switched his suspicions to the Marshwiggles.

"Oh, honestly," Susan sighed, "They can't all be involved."

"But if it's Calormen," Lucy commented, looking up from the stack of petitions Susan had been adamantly ignoring, and chewing her quill thoughtfully. "Then we can't attack, they're far too populous."

"Exactly," Peter agreed, "so it only makes sense to conquer the others. Then we'll have a bigger army, and stand a far better chance against them."

"But then we'll have more rebellions to deal with," Lucy argued. "Most people don't like being conquered, you know, and besides, people die every time you decide to fight. Our subjects, Peter. We're responsible for their welfare, and you're just gambling with their lives."

"Sometimes they die of colds!" Peter snapped back. "We can't prevent it, the cordial can't be used everywhere at once, nor can we afford to use it all the time. It'll run out soon, or possibly even get smashed in a battle. You can't take it so commonly to the wars!"

"It's mine," Lucy protested, bright spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks. It reminded Susan of the way Edmund had always argued back. "Father Christmas gave it to me!"

"Aslan made me High King," Peter answered, but it lacked any real bite. Nonetheless, a rather awkward silence descended on the room, in which they all avoided looking at each other.

Glancing around, Susan noticed that the curtains on the window looked strangely worn, and squinted. Moth-eaten, perhaps. She would have to get some owls or ichneumon wasps to catch them, though they were most likely just dumb beasts rather than treasonous subjects.

"Lune has only just recently lost a beloved son," she said finally. "I hardly think he would be so quick to cause others that pain."

"He might think we were involved," said Peter stubbornly.

"We helped him chase Bar," Lucy protested.

"But we failed," Susan pointed out.

"Still, he's our friend."

"I don't think royalty can afford friends," said Peter sadly, who had been claiming that they could merely weeks ago, his arm around some good-looking young Galmian, who he insisted was 'just a friend'.

Lucy scoffed, almost laughing, "What nonsense. Mister Tumnus is certainly my friend. He protected me, remember?"

_He brought you into the danger in the first place,_ Susan thought but didn't say, because they had had that argument already.

"Peter, you can't blame everyone" she said finally, even though it broke her heart. "It's done."

"We can't just let it go like that. Someone ordered it!"

"Yes," she agreed, "but we don't actually know who." That was the worst part, the thing preventing any real closure, because if you didn't know, then you let them get away free, which meant betraying Edmund's memory. They couldn't protect him in life, and were now unable to avenge him in death.

She reached for her own pile of petitions, and began to read, writing a neat 'denied' on every application to leave the country, whether to return home or visit close ones.

Her hands never shook.

* * *

Later Susan sat alone in her private study and watched the flames flicker in the fireplace, feeling utterly cold. It took a long time for the plan to fully form in her mind, but she had been certain of one thing all along: it really wouldn't do.

* * *

So the next morning, she called on Aslan himself on the beach, wind pressing her hair flat against her scalp, and eventually he appeared, stepping out of the sea foam. Bizarrely, she found herself remembering the legends of Venus, about whom Bacchus was ridiculously close-mouthed , though he always flushed the colour of fine Galmian wine.

She was almost absurdly relieved he had come at all; after all, he wasn't a _tame_ lion.

"Susan Pevensie of Narnia," he said, his voice soft as always, and for a minute it was all Susan could do to restrain herself and not step forwards to sink her face into his soft mane like Lucy had done so often. "I do not think you are fully aware of the repercussions which await you."

There were no questions poised there, just pure comprehension of motives.

"I am," she responded, sinking her fingernails deep into the palms of her hands. It was too late to turn back. Royalty could never seem indecisive, and she had been doing this for long enough that to be otherwise shouldn't have even crossed her mind.

"He will not be the brother you remember. The dead can never replace the living, for experience changes all men." Aslan warned, and perhaps this was where Susan should have stopped, reconsidered, asked him how. Maybe she should have turned back, and walked back to the castle and forgotten about her brother.

Instead, she lifted her head high, and met Aslan's eyes in an unspoken challenge. "That doesn't matter."

"Everything matters in the end, Daughter of Eve. The smallest change can cause great effects."

She did not hesitate. "We need him back. Narnia needs him."

"You and your siblings are enough to rule the land."

"And yet what use are broken rulers to a country? We failed him before we first came, and now we have failed him again. We should have been more careful, appointed more guards to watch over him. Maybe then he would still be alive."

"All things come in time, O Queen."

"We would not have lost him so soon. Aslan, it was our fault." Susan said, and then, when he did not answer, corrected herself. "No, it was my fault. I was supposed to take care of them, and I failed."

There was something obscuring her vision, turning even the lion into a golden blob, bright against the glasz of the sea. When she lifted a hand to her eyes, it came away wet.

"After the Battle against the White Witch, you asked Lucy if more must die for Edmund. But you know what Peter will do better even than he does. He'd raze whole countries; massacre everyone he thinks might have been involved. Thousands of lives, lost because just one was taken. And he'll tear himself apart doing so, and rip apart Narnia in the process, because nothing will ever be enough."

Aslan had remained silent during her speech, but when he spoke, it was with the voice that had sung the very world into being. Susan felt the ghost of it ripple across the air, run up her arms like shivers or goosebumps.

"There is always a price to be paid, Susan Pevensie of Finchley."

She dropped to her knees on sand, feeling a stone stab her knee as she landed, and begged, her head bowed in supplication. "Please Aslan."

"There is always a price to be paid," he repeated. "And it is not only for those who seek."

"I would give up anything."

"You may change your mind in time, Daughter of Eve," warned the lion. "And help does not come when called."

"I won't." Susan assured him, with all the confidence of one unaware of what she was losing, both for them and for Narnia itself.

Then Aslan tossed back his mane and roared to the sky, and the very ground beneath Susan seemed to twist, shifting beneath her like the Whirling Sands told of in whispers in Calormen.

Some of the sand flew upwards into her eyes, and she reached up with a hand to rub them. When she could finally see properly, Aslan was gone, and there was a very familiar body lying on the ground next to her, his chest rising and falling in impossible semblance of life.

* * *

Her first thought was that he somehow looked younger, though of course the memories had already began to fade.

He fit into her arms just the same; chin butting familiarly against the sharp bone of her shoulder.

"Let's go up to the castle. Peter and Lucy will be delighted." Susan said, and he followed her without complaint, though his steps were unsteady and slow, and soon enough he had to lean on her for support, his arm wrapped tight around her waist.

His easy obedience should have been a sign, really.


	2. Chapter 2

She strode into the castle with her head held high, and a sense of triumph thrumming through her veins, half-carrying, half-dragging Edmund in his arms through the courtyard and up the large steps, and ordered one of the gaping onlookers to direct Peter and Lucy to her private rooms.

It did not take long before they came, Peter with a brisk stride, and Lucy barely managing to dodge courtiers in her run.

"What's going on?" Lucy gasped out, face flushed from exertion. She had a dark flower tucked haphazardly into her hair, but all it did was bleach her face further.

Susan stepped aside to let them through the door, pointing towards the bed in the middle of the chamber, where Edmund lay, seemingly asleep.

Beside her, Lucy gave a startled gasp. Peter just stared, his face utterly blank.

"What have you done?" he said finally, and his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear him, though he still stood by her side.

"What I had to do," Susan replied, and pulled the door closed with a soft thud. It echoed in the silence, made more pronounced by the sudden absence of hooves thudding on stone, and the seemingly eternal conversations outside.

* * *

"It can't actually be him." Lucy repeated, perching on the bed, and very carefully not touching Edmund. "It's impossible."

"Is anything truly impossible in Narnia?" Peter asked, not looking at her. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"I suppose something must be," said Susan, who always strove to look at everything logically.

Rather than replying, Peter looked down at their brother. Edmund's face was very pale and his freckles very visible, but the usual shadows were missing from under his eyes. He seemed a lot more delicate, a constant reminder of how easy it had been to lose him.

"Perhaps we should -" he began, stopping when Edmund stirred. All three of them stared at him until his eyes opened.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice hoarse, and Lucy's face crumbled. She turned away, and dashed out of the room.

Susan shared a long look with Peter, and then followed her.

* * *

It took surprisingly long for Susan to catch up with her sister; despite her status as queen, palace staff tended to be most sympathetic towards Lucy whenever a fight occurred, and one of the maids had tried to placate her with nutty bread.

Eventually she found her sister on a veranda, sitting on the stone wall supposed to act like some sort of fencing.

"Get down from there," she ordered. "You'll fall."

"I'll be fine," said Lucy sullenly. "All the sea folk like me." And, then she added, suddenly mockingly cheerful, "Besides, I suppose you'll just resurrect me, and everything will be just fine."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Susan snapped. "This isn't a game."

Lucy turned to look at her, and then slid herself down to land next to Susan. Just then, a cold gust of wind blew past, almost knocking her against the wall.

"See?" Susan couldn't resist pointing out. "You would have fallen."

"How could you do it?" Lucy snapped out, and did not give her time to answer. "They look to us to lead them, you know, and what we're showing them is that necromancy is fine. The dead should stay dead." Lucy's eyes were red and raw, her mouth pulled taunt.

"Aslan did it." Susan sighed. "Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia. That's the way it has to be."

"It doesn't make us immortal, Susan," Lucy said sharply, and Susan heard her exhale before looking away. Finally, she continued, her words jarringly soft, "We'll all die eventually, and you can't keep doing this, over and over."

"Aslan did it," Susan repeated, because there was no one Lucy admired more.

"Well, he won't do it again." Lucy said it softly, who had always been the closest to him.

They stayed there in silence for a few more moments. Twenty feet beneath them, waves were crashing at the dull rocks.

Edmund would have laughed and teased Lucy that she thought it was a special sign from Aslan. From her sister's sudden silence, Susan guessed she remembered it too.

"Come on," she said soothingly, reaching out to take her sister's hand, but Lucy flinched away as if stung. "We should go back inside."

Rather than answering, Lucy turned away, and stared sullenly far out to sea. After a few minutes, Susan gave up and simply left her there.

* * *

Peter's office was panelled in light oak wood, with a large window overlooking the inner courtyard.

At that moment, Susan hated it, resenting the fact that she had to stand there and attempt to explain her actions to her own brother, as if being queen did not mean she alone was responsible for her own actions.

Somewhat predictably, Peter had sided with Lucy, and his voice brokered no argument. "You shouldn't have done it."

Susan didn't even try to reason with him.

"You should be pleased," she pointed out instead. "Ed's back."

She would have liked to be able to honestly claim that it had been done purely for the Narnians, who were becoming accustomed to their rule, and the empty throne in Cair Paravel; rather than the rapidly fading memory of Edmund's wit, and the way he only let himself truly relax when they were alone.

"No," Peter insisted. "He's not."

He sighed, and sat back down on his chair. The sunlight peering through the window turned his hair into spun gold, but it highlighted the tired shadows on his face. He looked impossibly old, far too ancient to be the boy Aslan had crowned not so long ago.

"The thing is that it's not quite him, Su," he said finally. "He doesn't remember us. By Jove, I had to explain to him who he is."

"So we'll explain everything to him," she said, in an attempt to placate him. It didn't work.

"You might as well have gotten a doppelganger. I'm sure that would have taken less effort."

"A doppelganger would not be our brother," she said sharply, and left him there too, not giving into the urge to slam the door on the way out.

* * *

Edmund was awake when she entered, propped up against the elaborate headboard. Predictably, he had a thick tome on his lap and a cup of something vaguely medicinal in his hand, from which he took tentative sips every few minutes, and winced every time.

Susan leaned against the door frame and watched him.

It took him longer than usual to realise, but eventually he looked up with a faint smile.

"Hello." At the very least, his voice was back to normal. "Are you Susan?"

Susan had to bite the inside of her lip very hard in order to maintain her composure. "Yes, I am," she answered with a weak smile.

Edmund's answering smile was small, and more than a little cautious. He held up the book by way of explanation.

"Peter has explained some things," he said. "But it's all rather confusing."

"I suppose it would be." She moved towards him, and sat down on the side of the bed. "Do you remember anything?"

"Bits and pieces. Most of it doesn't make sense, though."

"Well, anything in particular you'd like to know?"

Edmund shrugged slightly, one surprisingly bony shoulder bobbing up. "There's probably too much for that. Who is Aslan? The book doesn't say, but the author seems rather impressed."

"Aslan is," Susan found herself searching for words. "Do you know what a god is?"

Edmund looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he answered, "A man wearing a dress?"

"No!" Susan stared at him in astonishment, but calmed herself when he almost flinched back. "Why would you think that?"

"Someone used to take us to one, I think." His voice was tiny.

Belatedly, Susan remembered Sunday services at St Mary's. "No, he was just a man who devoted his whole life to teaching others about God. Well, God could do anything, and most of the time he helped people, and that's kind of what Aslan's like. He's very powerful, and normal rules don't apply to him. He brought you back."

"Did I want to be brought back?"

The question made her smile. Edmund had always been inquisitive to the point of sheer irritation.

"You didn't want to go in the first place."

He didn't seem particularly mollified. "Okay. So why did I?"

"Politics," she said, after a long silence. "We're royalty, these things happen."

Except that they didn't, not to four schoolchildren from Finchley, but it had been almost a relief to realise that when people hated you, it was never as personal as it seemed.

* * *

"But what made me go away?" asked Edmund later, finished book set to one side and demanding a more useful one.

Behind them, Lucy made a faintly disapproving sound. Susan had not even noticed her come in. "You mean die," she corrected.

Edmund's eyes went very wide, flickering between them. "Dead people don't come back."

"Sometimes they do," said Lucy, with a very pointed look at Susan. "Apparently."

"What do you mean?" asked Edmund. "What's going on?"

"Just a small matter of policy we disagreed on," Lucy lied, not looking at Susan. "How are you?"

But as Edmund lapsed into a cascade of rapid words, Lucy interrupted him. "Sister dear. I do believe you have unfinished business with some foreign dignitaries."

Her words were sweet, but her tone was pure ice.

"Indeed." said Susan, matching her tone. "Do excuse me."

It hurt more than she had expected, though truthfully, she hadn't given much thought to her siblings' reactions.

* * *

Unfortunately, Lucy was right, since by that time the newest gossip had already been tweeted all around Cair Paravel, courtesy of some rather gossipy parrots. So Susan made her way to the throne room, where she summoned all the foreign ambassadors currently residing in the castle.

The majority of them did not look particularly pleased to be there. Apparently their rulers did not bother to arm their liars with acting lessons.

Their moods did not much improve when she had finished talking, though they made a valiant attempt to pretend otherwise.

"O, fair queen, this is a blessing indeed," claimed the Tarkaan whose name she had somehow managed to forget, despite his recent lapse. "I had feared that the sun had darkened forever in your eyes."

"How can this be?" asked the Galmian ambassador, a tall, slim woman with dreadlocks the colour of fresh seaweed. "There had already been a funeral for His Majesty."

Susan smiled serenely. "A gift from Aslan," was all she said, as she watched them bow and exit in small groups, and pretended not to hear the comments about devils and dark magic.

She did, however, order an arrest warrant for the squat Lone Islander who dared to compare her to the White Witch. There were limits to diplomatic immunity, even in bizarre circumstances.

* * *

Peter caught up with her at the entrance to the Long Gallery, grasping her elbow lightly and pulling her from the throng of people into a small alcove nearby.

"Why are we imprisoning Sir Istmul?" There was laughter in his voice; he appeared to have forgotten their previous conversation.

"Apparently, he finds us reminiscent of Jadis." In the darkness, she was aware she looked it; the feeble light seemed to leech all the pigment out of her skin, leaving her pale as ice and as smooth as one of the Witch's sculptures.

Peter grinned with all his teeth. Combined with the mess he had somehow managed to make of his hair, it made him look a bit like Aslan, temporarily trapped in human form. "Is that the royal we?"

"He wasn't considerate enough to specify." Susan laughed, reaching up with both hands to try to brush his hair into place.

"What a shame. I had to confine Rogin to his chambers for accusing the Galmian ambassador of arranging the," he paused. It hardly seemed appropriate to refer to it as a murder anymore, since Edmund wasn't dead, and yet he hadn't survived it. "Incident."

"How bad is it?"

Peter sighed. "They're all accusing each other. Thankfully, it hasn't turned violent yet, but I doubt it'll take long."

"I'm almost surprised it took this long."

He shrugged. "They were all in mourning, or at least pretending to be. But we need to sort it out before it really deteriorates."

"How?"

"We need to find out who was really responsible," Peter answered, leaning back against the cold stone. It couldn't have been comfortable, but it did manage to make him appear significantly more regal.

"Does this mean you've worked out a strategy beyond conquering all our neighbours?" She had aimed for sarcastic, but it came out hopelessly fond. He smiled slightly in response, but it was only feeble and fleeting.

"No, but I'm sure you and Edmund will manage to. You've always been better at things like that than Lucy and I."

"You want him to investigate his own murder?" Susan spoke slowly, trying to make him understand.

"Who better? I'd assume he wants revenge." Peter had never been able to comprehend why other people didn't react in the same way he did. It led to many problems.

"He doesn't even remember it!"

"He probably remembers more than he thinks he does. Like we do of Spare Oom."

"I think we remember less than we think. What was our father's name?"

He frowned, before shrugging it off. "But that doesn't matter; it's not relevant to our lives in any way."

"Well, personally, I'd like to remember." Sometimes, the gaps in her memories kept her up at night, lying in bed and thinking for hours.

"I'm sure Ed would too, especially since it would help Narnia."

"He doesn't feel any obligation to help Narnia anymore," Susan pointed out. "He can barely remember it."

"So he needs to get to know her again, and then the duty will come back." He detached himself from the wall, and stepped away from her. "Oh, and don't tell him about what happened with the Witch. He doesn't need the guilt."

And with that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors.

* * *

"Susan!" came Lucy's voice behind her, and Susan froze in place, shivers running up her arms as she waited for her sister to catch up.

"I want to apologise," said her sister. "I don't blame you for doing it."

Susan looked at her. Lucy's jaw was clenched very tight.

"I couldn't have done it," she continued. "Aslan had already refused."

"And yet he changed his mind," Susan pointed out, squinting at the wall opposite them. Was that a drawing of –?

"But why? Why should he? He always knows better than us."

"You're the one who always understood him best."

"You make it sound like he's some sort of pet. You know perfectly well he's not a ta-" Lucy began, but the words seemed to choke her, and she stopped and thought for a minute. And then she said, "I don't think we've ever quite understood what that meant," very quietly, as if that made it any less of a failure.

"I don't think we really understand him at all," Susan admitted softly, and almost wanted to take it back at the look of sudden despair on Lucy's face.

"Maybe we shouldn't," she added. "Maybe that's the point. He's more than human, and we can never be."

"Well, he understands us," said Lucy, attempting to smile. "Perhaps that should be enough."

Susan looked down. There were muddy paw-prints leading up to the staircase at the end of the corridor. She hoped it hadn't been a member of the Royal Guard.

"Do you still think I shouldn't have done it?" she asked finally.

It seemed to take forever for Lucy to answer, her quick-witted sister, who was always ready with a vibrant laugh. "I can understand why you did."

It was all she would get, so it had to suffice. Nonetheless, Susan's spirits were dampened by the time she sat down to examine Lord Istmul's proposal for a new bridge to link the capital Avra to his native Felimath.

The man himself may have been temporarily incarcerated, but unfortunately that didn't mean they could afford to pay any less attention to him.

* * *

Dinner made for a rather stilted affair, not aided by the way the servers were unable to resist staring at Edmund, who in turn fixed his eyes on his plate, watching diligently as more and more food was piled on it.

"How did I die?" he asked eventually.

Peter paused, goblet halfway up to his mouth. He set it down just as Lucy's knife hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Assassins," said Susan when none of them moved to answer.

"Why?" Edmund demanded. He sounded as if he were enquiring about the weather.

"That's what we're trying to find out," Peter replied. He had stopped eating entirely. "You and Susan, in particular."

"Why them?" Lucy asked, leaning forward. "I'm perfectly capable - "

"I need you near the Archenlander border," said Peter hurriedly. "In case Lune decides to do anything."

"You mean in case he chooses to strike pre-emptively, before you decide to invade his country?" Lucy smirked,  
but at least she appeared mollified.

"Our borders need to be protected," said the High King seriously. "There have recently been raids near that area."

"What our dear brother isn't telling you," said Susan in a low voice to Edmund, "is that the raids were specially ordered by him against Archenland."

"They attacked our people," Peter protested.

"Which is what you will say to Lune, no doubt," she answered, raising a goblet to her lips. The wine was old and fine, and had originally belonged to petty Archenlander lords who had the misfortune of residing by the Narnian border.

The triumph was sweet against her tongue, and Susan signalled for more. Mrs Beaver's daughter served her, but uncharacteristically she did not lift her eyes from the plain tablecloth.

"They attacked our people," Peter reiterated. There was a dark flush against his collarbones.

"We attacked theirs first," she side-eyed him.

"No, that was those nasty outlaws, with whom we have no affiliation whatsoever."

"How are we meant to figure it out?" Edmund asked, effectively changing the subject. "Are there clues?"

The old Edmund would never have asked that.

"No," she answered, and drained her goblet to avoid saying anything sharper. "This isn't a detective story."

"I don't know," said Peter with a bright smile. "You were always in charge of espionage."

Edmund's eyes widened. "I was a spy?" he asked incredulously.

"Not a field agent. You were the one who received all the reports, though."

"So who do they report to now?"

"Madame Ness. You can meet her on the morn; it's far too late to bother her now. She can't stand being woken up." He gestured for more wine.

* * *

"Absence has not increased your intellect, I see," observed Madame Ness, who was the only person in the world capable of talking to Edmund like that. "Of course I do not know who ordered the attack. Do you not realise that they and all their kin would be only a faint memory upon this earth if I did?"

Stifling a laugh, Susan realised that she had sorely missed overhearing their conversations.

Edmund blinked. "If you're the spymistress, shouldn't you know everything?"

"No one knows everything, dear," said the serpent, her tone almost pitying. "Besides, you were the spymaster, with all of your little reports all carefully filed and coded."

Living secluded from any sort of court, she had not needed to learn any diplomacy during the Witch's long reign, and it showed.

"Coded?" Edmund's voice had risen in pitch. He sounded utterly panicked.

The old Edmund would have wanted to shake him very badly.

"Multiple times," confirmed Madame Ness, with a steel glint in her bulbous eyes. She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself.

Had she really been willing to sacrifice anything for this, this boy who simultaneously was and wasn't her brother? Perhaps Aslan had been more right than she wanted to believe.

"Do you receive them now?" Edmund asked, peering past her into the gloom. Susan felt something vaguely slimy brush her leg, and kept very, very still until she felt the pressure ease.

"Hardly," scoffed the serpent. "Parchment isn't yet waterproof."

"Your office, Ed" Susan said, and their eyes met.

* * *

Edmund's office looked like it hadn't been inhabited in a very long time; someone had cleaned it the day after his funeral, but few had entered since, so there was a very fine covering of dust across his otherwise empty desk. Susan pulled off the ornate sheets covering the filing cabinets and folded them carefully on top of each other. They were all from the same set: cloth-of-gold whorls on heavy crimson velvet, the fabric of their winter bedspreads.

"The key should be somewhere in here," she said. "Check in the ones by the window; I'll do these."

She was shifting gingerly through the papers, careful to keep them in order, when a glint caught her eye. She reached under the pile and dragged it out.

It was a nondescript envelope, thick and smooth under her fingers, but when she flipped it open, the waxy seal was unbroken.

It was dark brown, almost black, with indentations marking out the shape of four acorns positioned together like a clover. Susan knew it well: it was the emblem of the Terebinthian Imperial family.

"What is this?" she called out, and heard Edmund move towards her.

He stared at it for a rather long time. "I've never seen it before."

"Do you mind?" Susan asked, waving it half-heartedly.

"Go ahead," he answered, making a move towards one of the chairs in the room, before gazing down at it in distaste. He remained standing.

Susan slid her thumb under the flap, and brushed it along the parchment before pressing upwards to dislodge the wax. It did not break cleanly, but rather fell apart into clumps, half-sticking to the paper.

She pulled out a wad of badly-folded documents. The parchment was fine, and obviously expensive, but the ink was strangely pale.

"I don't know the code," she said, after staring at the words for a while.

Edmund reached out for it, and she handed it over gratefully. "Something about the thirteenth day," he said finally.

"You died on the thirteenth," Susan pointed out. "What else does it say?"

He didn't answer. "I thought it was the fifteenth."

"Who told you that?"

"A leopard, I think. Could have been a cheetah, I suppose. I was too surprised that it was talking to me to pay particular attention."

"It was the thirteenth," she repeated, then sighed. "Someone lied."

"Maybe he just made a mistake," Edmund suggested, unusually generous.

Susan shook her head. "It's not the kind of thing anyone could make a mistake about."

"I doubt it was as important to random citizens as it was to the three of you."

"You're a monarch," she stated. "Trust me, it was important."

* * *

Edmund couldn't translate any more of the message, and Susan had been at Anvard when that particular code had been invented, so they went to Peter.

They had tried to find Lucy first, but were informed that she had ridden out to join Tumnus for tea, and was not expected back until nightfall.

"Is it the anniversary?" Edmund asked unexpectedly, and then, when Susan had stopped to stare at him, added jovially, "I do remember some things, you know."

"That's not for a couple of months," she replied, but couldn't help smiling nonetheless.

* * *

Peter stared at the message for a very long time. Finally he took a small pencil out of his pocket and crouched down to scribble something at the bottom of the parchment.

"Where did you get this?" he asked finally, his voice cold.

"What does it say?" Susan asked instead.

Peter looked right at her. "Where did you get this?" he repeated.

"In my office," Edmund answered. "Answer her."

For a minute, he sounded like his old self.

Peter looked at him for a long moment, before switching his gaze to the parchment still in his hand, and recited. "Princess Elluera, rightful ruler of the Isle, to Parnrtya Tarkheena, High Priestess of Zardeenah at the Calavar Temple. Let it be known to you that by the thirteenth of the discussed month, your fears will prove unfounded. I will await the favour I have been promised by no later than the anniversary of our initial meeting."

"Who are these people?" Edmund asked.

Susan frowned. "There is no Princess Elluera of Terebinthia."

Peter nodded slowly, and added. "All the High Priestesses in Calormen are based in Tashbaan."

"So either codenames or a red herring." said Edmund.

"It wouldn't be a very good one," Susan pointed out. "It's really rather obvious."

"Maybe they think we're stupid."

"Don't call it a red herring," Peter chimed in. "The fish might take offence."

"It wouldn't be a very good false clue then," Edmund corrected. There was a vile combination of a smile and a smirk on his face. It reminded her of England, of lies and shouts in small cold rooms. "Happy now?"

Peter matched him in tone. "Very much so," but he didn't look it.

_What if Peter_, Susan caught herself thinking, but stopped that thought before it could get any further. The only people they had left to trust were each other.

She couldn't lose that too.

* * *

The clearest memories Susan had had of Edmund had all been from the day he died; the morning, rubbing sleep out of hazy eyes, dark bruises upon an eternally pale face, and then later, the way the blood had stained his favourite blue tunic a damp purplish brown, and that last gasp of shocked pain before the endless silences.

She had forgotten so many things, the way he drank endless cups of coffee but never Calormene tea, and the way he woke up all at once, unlike Peter's slow stirrings; or the way he always played chess as if the pieces were real troops, the game eternal and endless, self-contained victory or defeat as final as the result of the Germans' bombs.

She remembered it now because of the glaring contrast between Edmund then, and Edmund now. He had been so good at chess and biting sharp comments just this side of affectionate, but now he just stared at the pieces on the board, and it was painfully apparent that he was trying so hard to strategise beyond moving a random piece and hoping for the best, but it wasn't working.

Susan had lost a brother once, but she hadn't quite gained him back yet.

* * *

It got worse.

Lucy came back early, her hair windblown, and her eyes wild. She almost jumped from her horse, ignoring Alambil's strident protests, and tore through the palace as if attempting to out-run an army.

"Susan!" she panted, "You'd better come quickly."

There was a thick envelope squeezed tightly in her hand.

Susan stuffed the cap back onto her best inkwell, and followed her downstairs, one arm hovering over the banister.

* * *

"Where did Tumnus get this, Lu?" Peter asked, gesturing to the document Lucy had insisted on holding onto.

"What is it?" Edmund asked simultaneously.

Lucy looked right through them. "He said someone had left it on his coffee table while he was on his daily walk." Her words were stilted, as if she were fighting to get them out of her mouth at all.

Susan reached over to brush her sister's hand away from the envelope, and met with surprisingly little resistance. Lucy sat with her back utterly straight, as still as one of the Witch's sculptures.

It already had been opened carefully, so she was able to slide the papers out easily. It felt like her heart had stopped beating.

Wordlessly, she extended it to Peter, who blanched.

"What is it?" Edmund demanded.

None of them answered for a long time, Edmund looking between them frantically.

"Your suicide note," Peter breathed out finally, the words a single oomph of withheld breath.

Edmund blinked. "What! I thought it was a murder."

"It was," Susan assured him.

"It's not real," Lucy said hurriedly, sounding as if she were trying to make herself believe it too. "It can't be."

"No," Peter confirmed, looking down to read it through. Unbelievably, he laughed.

They stared at him in astonishment.

"What the heck is wrong with you?" Lucy demanded.

"Ed seems to have suddenly become greatly melodramatic," Peter chortled. "Listen to this." He cleared his voice and read, "My darlingiest siblings, it has gotten far too much for someone as insignificant as me to bear."

Even Edmund burst out laughing at that.

"Are they mocking us?" Susan asked when they had all finally calmed down, before side-eying Edmund. "Darlingiest siblings?"

"As insignificant as me?" Lucy added, giggling.

"Finally developed some humility, have you Ed?" Peter questioned, raising his eyebrows.

"I think we've all established that I did not, in fact, write this."

"They took quite a good stab at your handwriting though." Peter commented, and then, when Lucy glared at him, added "metaphorically speaking, of course."

"This makes no sense," Susan pointed out. "First they're trying to make us think it was the Terebinthians, and now Edmund's supposed to have bought that assassin himself?"

Peter shrugged. "Maybe they changed their mind about the scapegoat. All we know is that it probably wasn't them."

"But that's what they want us to think!" Lucy appealed. "Think about it, they make their attempt purposely clumsy, so that we'd know that it's just framed, because it was them all along."

"Perhaps that's precisely what they want us to think," Edmund suggested.

It was making Susan's head ache. She'd never been good at theoretical thinking, much better at practicalities and logistics than deciding on a culprit.

_All in all, a terrible sleuth_, she realised, and glared at Peter.

He didn't even notice.

* * *

"But it could have been anyone," she protested later when Lucy and Edmund had both gone to bed, tired out. Edmund had a lot less energy than she remembered.

"Let's not talk about that," Peter answered, getting up to exchange a few words with the guards outside the room, after which Susan heard retreating footsteps.

He'd said that at breakfast too. "You keep saying that," she remarked, striving to remain calm. "Pretty soon we'll be conversing about the weather."

"Lovely for this time of year, isn't it?" Peter commented jovially, just as a faun entered to pour them summerwine in long champagne-like flutes.

He raised his glass. "To success."

"To Narnia," she said instead, licking her lips.

"Is that not the same thing, fair sister?" He laughed, but it was flat and bitter, and sadder than she'd ever heard him.

"Indeed," she agreed, and wondered whether they were all falling apart even more now that Edmund was back.

* * *

Five cups later she was laughing, and Peter was spinning her around the room to imagined music, and then he was laughing too, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, she could forget, and just feel happy.

He deposited her gently on the ground, but her head felt like it was still spinning, her vision dodgy, and when Susan reached up to kiss him on the cheek, her mouth landed at the corner of his instead.

Instantly, he froze, and pulled away from her, hands clutched very hard around her forearms.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as if it wasn't perfectly obvious. Susan laughed, a little breathless.

"What do you think?" she responded, stepping closer to him, and if her head felt a little fuzzy, then it had been like that for days.

"You're drunk," Peter proclaimed, and pushed her away, so hard that Susan stumbled backwards and wobbled for a bit.

He was at her side almost at once, one arm held very tentatively around her waist.

"Come on," he said, as soothingly as if she were still merely a child and not a queen. "Let's get you to bed."

* * *

When she woke up, it felt like there was something extremely heavy laid across her brow, heavier than a thousand of Peter's crowns, and it was pressing down from impossible angles.

Susan pushed herself up, and only then realised that it was just her head. Cautiously, she tilted it back and rested it very carefully against her headboard.

There was a flurry of movement to her side, and one of her handmaidens pressed a vial into her hand.

"To relieve the pain, Majesty," she murmured. Susan took it gratefully, and pulled the small cork off with one hand.

It tasted surprisingly bitter for such a sweet-smelling substance, but it worked swiftly. Within moments, Susan felt so light she thought she could float up to the high ceiling, and touch the figures painted so lovingly upon its surface.

She did not even notice her eyes close.


	3. Chapter 3

When Susan opened her eyes again, there was a freshly scrubbed bowl on her lap, still partially wet, and a crowd of blurry people in the room.

She blinked very hard until their contours became more distinguishable, and she realised that of course, most of them were not people at all.

Susan opened her mouth to speak, but the sounds which came out were garbled and nonsensical, and did not resemble any language she had ever heard.

"You must rest, Queen Susan," said the doctor, a learned fox with fur the colour of dried mud. Once a fervent revolutionary, he had been captured by the Witch's forces and kept as an army doctor for several painful years, and now seemed to both despise and cling to the profession.

"I cannot," she protested. "I have far too much to do."

"For some things, Your Highness, rest is the only cure," replied Doctor Leese, shoving his thick wire spectacles back up his nose. He had gained weight since the thaw, but his fur never quite regained the paleness it had once possessed, not even in the cold winter months.

"Possibly," Susan agreed. "But not for this."

She pushed back the bedcovers, and pulled herself out of bed, though it took far more effort than she was used to wasting on such a simple action.

"Where are my handmaidens?" she asked politely, ignoring the medical assistant's indignant frown.

"The High King has had them confined to be questioned, I believe."

"Why?"

"Your Majesty was poisoned two days ago." said the doctor. "For a time, we feared the fever would not break, and we would need to use Queen Lucy's cordial."

Susan threw open a random chest, and pulled out the first few garments, which consisted of a simple shirt, jerkin and leggings, more appropriate for long rides than court, but the elaborate twists and ribbons of her fine gowns seemed too much to bother with alone.

"Who poisoned me?" she asked, lacing up the shirt. One of the drawbacks of being royalty was the way the needlewomen insisted on adding decorative ruffles or special lacings to form up a pattern on clothes.

"It has not yet become common knowledge," Doctor Leese answered, the courtier's version of 'I don't know'.

Considering the speed at which gossip travelled through Cair Paravel, Susan surmised that the culprit had not yet been revealed.

"I really must find my siblings," she said, and slipped her feet into some relatively comfortable shoes.

"I really must recommend - " started the doctor, but Susan ignored his protests.

* * *

She did not bother to knock when she entered Lucy's room, a brightly coloured chamber with many windows but no mirrors.

"Who gave you the potion?" Lucy asked, not even bothering to look up. There was a myriad of papers scattered across her desk in seemingly no order, though Susan knew that her sister would be able to locate any specific document almost instantaneously.

Susan frowned, and tried to cast her mind back. Her memories seemed fuzzy, and only half-formed, as peculiar as those of a home before Narnia.

"Kreysa," she said finally, prompting Lucy to look up.

"That's not possible. Kreysa isn't due back for another week."

"She's the only ash dryad currently in my service." Susan retorted, eyeing the knives lying haphazardly across Lucy's desk. She seemed to be using them as paperweights. Susan just hoped her sister would not lose her temper with any particularly obsequious messenger.

"But she's not here!"

"I remember her!"

"She's at the Telmarine border, Susan, accompanying Princess Jamille after her companions mysteriously vanished or attempted to assassinate her."

"Are they still blaming us?" Susan asked, momentarily diverted.

"Don't you know that we're to blame for everything bad that happens on the whole continent?" Lucy laughed scornfully. "Even the things that happen to us are somehow our fault."

"I'm sure it was Kreysa."

"But it can't have been." Lucy had all of Peter's obstinacy. Once she was persuaded of a fact, it was near impossible to change her mind.

"Do you not trust me?" Susan enquired, though she knew it was a low blow.

Lucy glared. "I'll trust you until I die. This isn't about trusting you."

"It's precisely about trusting me. I was there, remember? It happened to me, not you."

"And then you were unconscious for two whole days. Who's to say you remember it right?"

"It was her," Susan insisted. "I remember her."

"I remember her going away," Lucy answered. "But not even the fastest rider would have made it back yet, not with the Telmarine processions on every religious festival. And you know how many of them there are!"

"I remember her," Susan repeated, but it sounded like a weak argument even to her own ears.

* * *

"Kreysa hasn't returned yet," confirmed Peter later. "I sent Lord Peridan to check."

"But can we trust him?" Susan said archly, sipping her tea. It felt wonderfully hot in her throat, and even the reminder of her recent poisoning couldn't detract from the taste.

"We can't do all the work ourselves." Lucy commented, shading in a rough drawing in the margins of her doubtlessly important paper.

"Not so long ago you were suspecting everyone," Susan reminded Peter. He had the courtesy to look mildly abashed.

"Not our subjects," he pointed out.

"One of them poisoned Susan," Edmund stated, as if any of them could have forgotten.

"It could have been a foreigner," Peter suggested weakly.

"No," Edmund insisted. "One of her attendants gave it to her. At least one of them had to be in on the plot."

"She might not have known," said Lucy. "One of Doctor Leese's attendants could have tampered with it."

"It came from my chest of drawers," Susan explained. "It was just my usual hangover brew."

"It could have been planted there," Peter suggested, with all the confidence of someone for whom assassins invariably sharpened their steel.

"Do you think us so careless, brother dear?" Lucy questioned, laying her equipment aside. Her voice was dangerously low.

At any other time, Susan would have found it funny to watch Peter swallow nervously. Irritating Lucy tended to lead to a knife-throwing challenge, a discipline at which Lucy was by far the best. Any of them could hit roughly the bullsye, but Lucy always hit the middle of it.

"Hardly," he replied hastily.

_But we used to be_, was what he didn't say.

"Maybe we still aren't careful enough," Susan murmured, but if the others heard her, they did not choose to acknowledge the fact.

* * *

There was a series of hard knocks on the door.

Susan rolled over, and waited for the guards to restrain the applicant and leave them in the cells overnight as a warning not to attempt it again.

The knocking did not cease.

She pulled herself up, and slid off the bed, rubbing sleep from her eyes with one hand, using the other to frantically brush down her hair before opening the door.

It was Peter, still clad in that day's clothes, and clutching a stack of thick, worn books.

"I think I've mostly narrowed it down," he said as Susan stepped aside to let him in.

"Peter," she answered, with a quick glance at the grand clock ticking merrily against the wall. "It's four in the morning."

"Don't you want to know who tried to kill you?" he asked.

"Right now, I want to sleep," she answered blankly. "It's the first time I've been able to sleep properly in ages."

"There isn't time."

"Alright," Susan said tiredly. "What did you find?"

"I thought you wanted me to go away?" Peter replied, grinning. "You know, I could come back."

"You've already woken me up," she reminded him, and sat down on the bed to reiterate the point. "I might at least get something out of it."

"Besides the sheer pleasure of my company?" he laughed, coming over to sit by her. "There are a couple of options."

Susan just looked at him.

"Well, first of all, it could be just an independent rebellion by your handmaid, or some other monarch," Peter began, "but that wouldn't explain why you were seeing someone who is supposed to be in a different country."

"I'm not crazy," she snapped, causing Peter to lift his hands up in mock surrender.

"I didn't say you were!" he protested. "Or, it could be a shape-shifter of some sort, probably linked to the first option."

"Shape-shifters don't exist," Susan said.

"Animals don't talk, and people don't return from the dead," Peter reminded her. "I don't think we can claim that anything is impossible in Narnia anymore."

"But we don't have shape-shifters as subjects, and if we don't, then surely none of the others do."

"Maybe they live in the wild lands past Ettinsmoor, or so far east they're close to Aslan's country. Some land of even more magic than Narnia."

"But why Kreysa? Why not one of you three? I'd trust you far more than any of them."

"Maybe they're limited to what forms they can take. I don't know, I only found out about them an hour or so ago, but apparently there's been some research into whether they can join the 'living' world in some way, mostly through some sort of sacrifice."

"But why would they want to harm us? What have we ever done to them?"

"They could be spirits of plants, almost like dryads. Maybe they used to reside in some of the trees we've cut down, and we never realised it." Peter suggested, staring behind her. When Susan followed his gaze, she found it rested on one of her chests of drawers, made from fine, supple wood.

"Those trees were just trees, Peter," she murmured, but her voice lacked conviction. "Like the ones anywhere else."

"That's what we thought," he said softly, and stood up, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. "My greatest apologies for disturbing your gentle sleep, sister."

"Think not on it, brother," Susan answered, and stood up to walk with him to the door. "Thank you."

He smiled slightly, gave a brisk nod to the guards outside her chambers, and walked off down the corridor, blending in with the shadows.

Susan closed the door, and lay down again, but no matter how hard she tried, she found she could neither sleep nor indeed rest at all.

_Just trees_, she thought, but the notion no longer reassured her.

* * *

"That's horrible," Lucy gasped after Peter had explained it again.

"Then they should have come to us," Edmund protested. "We could import wood, after all."

Susan frowned, "Imagine a dryad going to the Calormenes, they certainly wouldn't care. Maybe they don't trust us."

"I meant if we have been killing them," Lucy snapped. "Not that they might be targeting us."

"Well, obviously, that's awful too, but rather harder to change."

"Anyone may have tried to kill you," Lucy said, "Aslan knows we've all wanted to."

"You too," Edmund muttered, and shifted the book on his lap.

"But are they suspects for killing Edmund too?"

"Everyone's still a suspect," Susan answered.

"Everyone?" Edmund repeated, fingers tapping slightly against the worn cover.

"Everyone," Peter confirmed, then sighed. "Some supporter of the Witch, some rabid nationalist, or a particularly paranoid foreigner, not to mention our dear neighbours who feel they do not possess enough living space."

"Rabid nationalist?" Edmund questioned.

"The sun never," Peter started before bursting out laughing. "Okay, the sun _does_ set on the Narnian Empire, but someday it won't."

"The sun might not set on the Nazis' empire anymore either," Susan reminded him. "There's no way to know – everyone we knew might be dead by now."

Peter swallowed hard. "I think we have to concentrate on this world now."

"Who are you talking about?" Lucy asked, glancing blankly between them.

"Just some people back home," Susan answered.

"This is home," Lucy said quietly, her eyes wide in surprise.

"It wasn't always," Susan replied, then stood up, brushing her dress down. "I think it's time for breakfast, don't you?"

"I already ate," Edmund answered, grinning sheepishly. "Rienzi brought me some scones to the library."

"They never let me eat anything in the library," Lucy grumbled.

"You're never even in the library," he protested, and for a minute it felt like nothing had changed.

* * *

"The question is," said Lucy, buttering her toast, "how do we find them?"

Peter glanced at Edmund. "Anything more in your precious library?" he teased.

Edmund shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable. "If so, I haven't managed to find it yet. Not that we know what to do once we have."

"Well, obviously we – we must bring them to justice," Peter declared.

"We can't prove it was them. By Jove, we can't even prove that they exist."

"Peter's book said so," Lucy commented.

"Yes, but it was a very old book," Edmund replied. "It might not be correct. It's probably not."

Susan had never heard him sound so cautious about anything he had read. Usually, he adored books, no matter their age or author, claiming that they always had some kind of profound message, however subtle.

Then again, this was particularly serious.

* * *

"You seem to be remembering a lot more these days." Susan said, walking with Edmund along the corridors.

"I know enough to pretend I remember everything." He answered, gazing around as if trying to memorise everyone in the passage.

Susan nodded, and tried to seem comfortable with the situation. "Trying to figure it out?" she ventured.

"What else?" he replied, but never met her eyes. "Do you think they're Jadis sympathisers?"

"Not everything evil comes from the Witch," Susan reminded him, though it was the natural conclusion most Narnians immediately jumped to.

"I know," he sighed. "But a lot of it does."

"Not so much, nowadays," she assured him. Thankfully, it seemed that the Witch had utilised the majority of her forces at the Battle of Beruna, and so there were only a few followers who had remained to plot against them, and the last attack had been more than a year ago.

It was so easy to forget.

They had reached a staircase by then, and Susan leaned over the banister, squinting down in an attempt to make out individual figures from the crowd downstairs.

"Is that Mister Beaver?" she asked, spotting a beaver with a rather misshapen woolly hat, resembling the one their friend had taken to wearing after discovering his first grey hairs, of which he was very ashamed.

Edmund looked down too. "Yes," he said finally. "I suppose it is."

He stayed there, deep in thought, as Susan walked down to welcome the beaver.

* * *

"Rained terribly, Your Majesty," said Mr Beaver, "but we got an agreement in the end."

"How much did we compromise?" asked Susan, who had learned quickly that the goals of foreign rulers rarely coincided with their own.

"They accept the necessity of us having guards near the border, but insist on having their own."

"It's a sensible step," she acknowledged reluctantly.

"Furthermore, they refuse any stipulations to the terms," he continued.

"They'll aim to outnumber us, and we cannot spare as many troops as Lune might be able to."

"If we ordered recently conquered territories to supply troops, perhaps," Mr Beaver suggested, leaning back in his armrest. As a concession to his friendship and early loyalty, Susan had taken him to their private sitting room rather than to the formal audience chamber.

"Then we could not be sure of them," she answered. "There are many who would wish a return to their old governments."

"Prince Reginald was a corrupt scoundrel," protested the beaver.

"Yes," she agreed, although the prince had been most cordial every time they had met, "but some will always look back fondly towards their past."

"Your Majesties will soon win them over," he assured her, smiling genially.

Privately, Susan was not so sure. There had been many instances in their old world when the opposite had happened, although she could no longer remember the specifics.

Nonetheless, she smiled brightly and concurred.

* * *

Following her brother's example, Susan went to the library.

Although Edmund had appointed a librarian not long after their coronation, the room seemed to have an almost permanent coating of fine dust over its shelves, though thankfully it managed to elude the books themselves, the quantity of which was increasing almost weekly.

Furthermore, the books were not arranged in any particular order; the librarian, a thin Marshwiggle named Murkglook, insisted that he could find any individual book quickly enough, and grumbled under his breath in an even more miserable tone than when anyone did ask him, so after several depressing conversations, Edmund had given up, and settled for walking through the aisles until something caught his eye.

Susan, however, did not have the patience, and so resolved herself to the prospect of a bad mood, and walked up to Murkglook to enquire about books on spirits.

"Alas, King Edmund has removed all of them," said the librarian in a particularly dejected tone.

"All of them?" Susan asked, though she doubted there could have been that many on the subject to begin with.

"I doubt Your Majesty could find any mention of them in the few encyclopaedias remaining," he answered. "Dryads perhaps, though they are also rarely written about."

"Do you have anything about getting rid of spirits?" she asked, glancing around the room as if the book would volunteer, and jump from the shelves into her hand.

Here, it wasn't as ridiculous a notion as it might have been anywhere else. Cair Paravel liked to help her inhabitants.

"Nothing about spirits," continued the Marsh-wiggle sadly. "No books about anything, it seems sometimes."

"We have books," Susan protested, though it lacked conviction. Although they had rescued what books could be salvaged from the cellars and hidden cupboards of Cair Paravel, apparently placed there prior to the Witch's rule, and had received many as gifts from visiting dignitaries, their collection seemed very sparse, and more than a little mediocre, especially when compared to the great scrolls in the great library at Tashbaan, which very much deserved the Tisroc's constant boasting.

"None about anything of value," Murkglook maintained. "All obsolete theories, like the world being potato-shaped, or exorcisms, or the prospect of peace with the giants."

"We have peace with the giants," Susan said.

"They eat marsh-wiggles, you know," said the librarian, "life itself is a struggle for us up there. Life is a struggle anywhere, but it is even worse near the giants."

Susan sighed, knowing from past experience never to attempt to debate anything with a Marsh-wiggle. "You have books on exorcisms, then?"

"Probably not," he answered. "We don't really have books about anything."

"You just said you had books on them!"

"Somewhere, there may be books on them," he said. "Unfortunately, no books ever seem to be here."

Susan sighed. "You just said they were. Obsolete theories, remember?"

"Exorcisms never actually work," continued the Marsh-wiggle. "They tried a few years into the Witch's reign, and look what happened."

"Maybe they did it wrong," Susan suggested. "Besides, she was a witch, not some sort of spirit, wasn't she?"

"Everyone always does everything wrong," said Murkglook grimly.

"I need those books," she said, starting to feel more than a little irritated.

He bowed slightly, then walked out from behind his desk, stumbling slightly, and moved through the library somewhat reluctantly. Every couple of aisles, he would stop and select a seemingly random book, and carry on.

When he finally stopped, Murkglook had five tomes in his arms, and was barely balancing them in his arms. Reaching his desk again, he wrote the titles of four of them in a small green book, and handed them over.

"What about that one?" Susan asked.

"I'm going to see if it's any less hopeless than the rest of the books in here," he answered.

Her eyebrows delicately raised, Susan lifted up the four remaining books. They were heavier than they looked.

"Thank you," she said.

"Don't thank me," said the Marsh-wiggle with a sigh. "They won't help you in the least."

He was still gazing sadly at his own selected book when Susan left the room.

* * *

Susan was lying on her stomach in a meadow near Cair Paravel, propped up on one arm so that the sunlight would fall straight onto the pages. Nonetheless, the print was small and faded; something Edmund was far more used to reading than Susan, who had to squint at the pages for a few minutes before she could make any sense of them.

It should have been easy enough; all four of them were used to decoding triple coded or translated messages, but the tomes had been written sometime nearer to Frank than to Jadis, and it showed. It read rather like the silly, flimsy books she could remember from a lifetime ago, full of ancient stories Narnians told through song.

"Want some help with those?" Lucy asked, slipping down carelessly onto the ground by Susan, who gestured with her free arm towards the pile of remaining books.

"Help yourself," she answered, and smiled at Lucy's grimace. "They're not quite _that_ bad."

"And yet I haven't seen you turn the page yet," her sister replied, reaching out for the top tome. "Slow going, is it?"

"I am taking in the maximum amount of information," Susan informed her, turning back towards the page, and stubbornly turning it. She doubted there was anything particularly important on the second half of that side, anyway.

"Of course," Lucy agreed, stretching out, and flicking through her own book. "Riveting read, I'm sure."

"That's not the point."

"They should at least try to make it interesting."

"That's not the point," Susan repeated, laughing. "They're helpful." And then, when Lucy continued turning the pages, she added, "you won't find any pictures in there, you know."

"I'm not a child!" Lucy snapped, but she did settle for opening the book properly and running her eyes along the text for a minute before turning the page again.

Susan turned back to her own book with a sign, reading along in hopes of something useful jumping out at her.

Perhaps she shouldn't have dismissed Murkglook's opinions so hastily.

* * *

"Find anything?" Susan asked later, rubbing her eyes. The sun would be setting soon, but the daylight had already grown significantly dimmer.

"Not really," Lucy replied, stretching out. "How about you?"

"They can shape shift," Susan offered, but they had already known that. "Maybe Ed will have found something."

"Well, he does have the rest of the books," Lucy agreed, standing up and brushing her dress down, book still in one hand. She stretched the other one down to Susan, who took it gratefully and let her sister pull her up.

Lucy's hands were surprisingly cold, but the slight calluses were reassuringly familiar.

* * *

They talked of the reported discontent in Terebinthia, of secret meetings between the royal family, still nominally in control, and the hardened generals who had not expected the Narnian conquest.

Susan couldn't entirely blame them; after all, they had gained control through some dodgy economic means only Edmund fully understood.

"Princess Elluera," Lucy suggested "from the letter."

"There's no such person," Susan said, ducking under a low branch, its leaves rustling as they grazed against her hair.

"Maybe they've hidden her somewhere, or we just overlooked her."

"It is a large family," Susan acknowledged, but it did not seem right to her, for the memory of scrolls of elongated titles and numerous names was not so old.

"Ask the court genealogist," Lucy suggested.

"We have a court genealogist?" The problem with ruling jointly was that they could never be quite sure what the others had ordered.

"No, but we should get one," Lucy said, skipping over a puddle. "Maybe Mr Tumnus. He knows a lot about such things."

"There must be someone else we could appoint."

"They already accuse us of nepotism. But it's even worse if we simply ignore our friends' abilities."

* * *

Edmund hadn't found anything by the time Susan saw him again.

"But you have all the books!" she protested, though apparently he hadn't been as thorough as he'd thought.

"You have some too," he replied. "It takes time."

"We may not have time."

"Then we hardly have time to fight," Edmund said briskly, already walking away. She caught up with him, stepping easily into the empty place by his side.

"You never spend any time with us anymore," she said, reaching for his arm.

He twisted away. "I can't be in two places at once."

"Even so."

They continued walking until a thought struck Susan. "How did you know I took some books, anyway?"

"No one bothers me when I read in the library. Even Murkglook's complaints seem far away after a while."

"So how did you know?"

Edmund shrugged, oddly quiet. "There was a boring bit."

It sounded perfectly plausible, but her brother found lying as natural as breathing. _I was just playing along_, the taste of Turkish Delight still lingering in his mouth.

"Fair enough," she said, pasting on a smile, and they walked on in silence.

* * *

Upon learning that they hadn't found anything despite leaving him saddled with significantly more work, Peter had sighed and reluctantly offered his own tired services.

He seemed to be regretting it, if the frequent sighs were any indication. "This is absolutely useless."

"What did you expect?" Edmund looked up, one eyebrow raised in a fashion only he could manage. "'How to perform an exorcism', all clear and detailed?"

"Would be nice," Peter said, turning the page. "And I thought the reports were bad!"

"I find the reports quite interesting, actually," Lucy piped up. "They give an indication of what the people actually think."

"Do you not know that from your travels, sister?" Edmund asked, not unjustly. Other countries had advisors and censorship in order to maintain popularity amongst their people. They simply had Lucy, whose easy smiles produced many more.

"Many of them only see a Queen," Lucy said, stirring her hot chocolate sadly. "Especially those who didn't meet us at the beginning."

"We haven't been here all that long," Susan objected.

"It feels like a lifetime."

"It hasn't been," said Edmund shortly, looking back down at his book. After a few seconds, Susan followed his example.

She had skimmed past an exceptionally long history, focusing primarily on summoning spirits rather than removing them, and particularly the reasons various cultures had had for doing so. Unfortunately, while it seemed interesting, it could hardly be described as relevant.

Susan turned the page, sliding her eyes carelessly down it, before looking aside to reach for her own drink, tea specially imported from Calormen. She took a sip and grimaced; someone had added too much sugar again, and she had let it turn nearly lukewarm besides.

Nonetheless, Susan forced herself to drain the cup before turning back to her text. There was too much being wasted without her contribution, and someone a very long time ago had been so strict about it that Lucy had cried.

She couldn't remember who it had been anymore. One of the survivors of the Witch, perhaps Mrs Beaver with her hordes of ancient jam and crumpled pages with their scribbled recipes, or a well-wisher who had once been stone and needed no food at all.

* * *

The clocks had just struck nine when Lucy made a small sound of surprise.

"I've found something," she said happily, twisting in her seat with a laugh. "It's not _quite_ a how-to manual, but it seems useful. Oh!" She was forced to add as the book slid neatly off her lap to fall onto the floor with a loud thud.

Lucy poked it with her foot. Sometimes objects in Cair Paravel seemed almost as magical as its inhabitants, but the great tome remained stubbornly closed.

She looked up at them a little helplessly. "I did have something," she repeated.

"You'll find it again," Peter assured her.

Lucy did not smile back, but she did reach out for the book, and then, leaning back in her chair, began to flip though it anxiously, the pages flickering across like leaves in the wind.

It could hardly be good for them, yet Edmund hadn't even looked up to protest.

"Lucy," Susan said, when it became apparent that their brother was not paying the slightest attention, "you'll never find it that way."

"I know where it was on the page."

"There's no way you will even _see_ the page," Susan pointed out with a sigh. "If you give it to me –"

"I can do it myself!" Lucy insisted, and then, when Susan's mouth pursed with disapproval the way someone else's had once, looked away. "You wouldn't find it as easily, anyway," she added, far more calmly.

Peter was looking at them carefully, as if wondering whether to interfere, but Edmund hadn't once looked up.

* * *

Some time later, Lucy still hadn't rediscovered her apparently useful passage, and was clearly becoming increasingly more agitated about it by the minute.

"Look," Peter said finally, "let's just go to bed and find it tomorrow, Lu."

But Lucy only shook her head, "I read this section not that long ago," she insisted. "I'll find it soon."

Edmund didn't bother to stifle his yawn. "We can do this just as well tomorrow. I'm for bed."

"No, wait, I'll find it!" Lucy said. "It won't take that long."

"Circumstances seem to have proved you wrong, Lu," Edmund said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, before leaving the room.

"I'll find it," Lucy called after him, and carried on flicking through, albeit in a more composed manner. Susan rubbed her eyes, and gave a bleary smile at the naiad who came in to collect their dishes, and seemed to find it necessary to spend her whole time in the room giving Peter suggestive smiles, her head slightly bowed so as to look through her eyelashes.

Susan cleared her throat, and the naiad seemed to jerk forward, nearly brushing by Peter to get his cup, before reluctantly stepping away. She turned and walked towards the door, at which point she seemed to swoop down in a fluid motion only aquatic nymphs ever managed, and departed.

"I've found it," said Lucy, running her fingers down the page.

Peter leant forward, "What is it?"

Lucy shrugged. "Some sort of ritual to get rid of the spirits."

"Exorcism," Susan corrected.

"It doesn't matter what you call it," Lucy protested. "It only matters whether it works."

"If so, you can call it by its correct name."

"What does it require?" Peter interrupted, before their discussion could grow into a proper argument.

Lucy looked down again. "Chalk, salt, wine," she listed, then looked up again, staring straight at Peter. "And blood."

"Whose?" was all he asked.

"It doesn't say." Lucy answered, "but I doubt we can get the spirit's, if they even have any at all."

"I can do it," said Peter briskly, and then, when they both stared at him, added, "_someone_ has to."

"That someone doesn't necessarily have to be you," Susan pointed out.

"They've had enough of your blood already."

* * *

"Lucy found it again," she said to Edmund the next morning.

He gave a small nod in acknowledgement, and continued annotating the document in front of him. "I assumed so. Is it useful?"

"More than I would have expected," Susan said, measuring out two precise spoons of sugar for her morning coffee.

"When are we doing it?" Edmund asked, not looking up.

"Soon, I'd expect. It's not particularly complicated," she replied. "Why?"

"I thought I'd go for a ride this morning," he said.

"It's too dangerous," Susan protested, reaching out for bread. "We've lost you once already."

"I think I'm at more risk here than out there. It did happen within the castle walls."

"I suppose it would be nice to get some air." Susan said, wistfully. "I've got to draw up a proposal for a treaty with Doorn."

"Well, I don't envy you," he commented with a faint smile. "Do you really think it will work?"

"We can't know, I suppose," she answered. "No reason for it not to, really."

"I've never even heard of exorcisms before," Edmund said.

"So that's what's bothering you." Susan teased. "There'll always be things you don't know.

"If they tried it on her," Edmund started, ignoring her, then broke off, looking down at his lap. "It didn't work," he said in a very tiny voice.

"She probably wasn't one of them," Susan said. "It only works on spirits."

"In that case, wouldn't it also work against the peaceful ones?" he asked. "The dryads, and naiads, and everyone?"

"It claims to be against evil spirits."

"Most of those books don't even have consistent spelling." Edmund pointed out. "I wouldn't be so sure about trusting them."

"Just because they use archaic spelling -"

"They don't even stick with it!" he protested.

" - doesn't mean they don't have anything useful to say," Susan said. "You seem very against this."

"I'm not," Edmund insisted. "I just – it seems like something _she_ would do, okay?"

"Oh, Ed," she said, reaching for his hand. It was clammy in hers, and very warm. "She's gone."

"But everyone remembers, and if this backfires -"

"It's going to be fine," she assured him. "It might not even work."

"It seems like a peculiarly easy way out."

Susan smiled, but it came out far less sure than she'd intended. "We'll have to ask whether they think it'll have any negative effects, but other than that," she shrugged. "We won't know unless we try."

Edmund looked at her for a long time. "All actions have consequences," he said. "What if the price is too high?"


	4. Chapter 4

No matter how Susan tried to reassure herself, she couldn't forget Edmund's words, so, after whirling her signature across the bottom of yet another document, she got up and went in search of help.

She could have asked Kreysa, who had recently returned, but Susan had found herself wary of the dryad despite assurances that she had not been implicated in the murder attempt. It wasn't just the incident, but the way she watched Susan now, far too carefully.

Instead, she found her footsteps tracing the well-known path to Madame Ness' lair, and almost smiled, though the sand was wet from the night's rain and rubbed against her bare feet.

The sea serpent did not answer for a long time following her explanation.

"I suppose," she said at last, "it would depend on the wording of the book. Do you happen to have it?"

"No," said Susan, feeling oddly defensive. "Lucy has it, up at the castle."

"Hmm," went the serpent. "Indeed."

"You would surely not have me mistrust Lucy?"

"I would have all of you mistrust everyone," Madame Ness replied. "It is the only way anyone can ever be safe."

"But do you think it will cause any harm?" Susan asked her.

"Dear, these tales are just that – tales to bring blind hope to children. I would be very surprised to get any effects at all."

"They seemed so sure," Susan said. "The writers, I mean."

"They lived so long ago no one knows who they even were," said the serpent. "Nor what their aims were for writing. You might have happened upon some of the Witch's early propaganda."

"Why would she have needed it?" Susan asked, momentarily distracted. "She was ruling so harshly -–"

"It was no easy task to conquer a country like Narnia," said Madame Ness, sounding impossibly old. Susan stared at her, trying her best to look past the shadows and the thin glimmery sheen of water covering the serpent's body. She thought she could see wrinkles and cracked skin.

She had never given serious thought to the age of anyone in Narnia before. Somehow it had seemed as if they were all going to live forever together, like in some fairy tale she had heard long ago, one which had seeped its way down to her very bones and whose ideas resurfaced in the least convenient moments.

"So you don't think it will matter what we do, then?" she asked finally.

"No," came the reply, before Madame Ness retreated back into her home.

Susan stood there for a while, staring at the place where the sea serpent had been, before finally turning away.

Her eyes stung, and she did not think it was just from the sea-salt in the air.

* * *

"I suppose," said Lucy in a low voice, "that it all depends on the wording. It's more than just the fine print, it's the implications our actions may have."

"That's what I'm worried about," Susan whispered back, eyes still fixed on the hastily erected stage where a rather morose play was being performed at the behest of the Royal Restoration Society, the chairman of which could be heard groaning about how actors used to be better in his day. She spared him a disgusted glance. "Oh, honestly."

"He was one of Her first victims," Lucy said. "It must be a great change."

"It was a great change for us too. We've never complained," she said, although it wasn't strictly true, but at least they'd never done so in public.

"Being unhappy is not a crime. Beside, for us it was mostly an improvement."

"The Witch's absence could be considered an improvement too," Susan said, and brought her hands together to applaud politely when one of the players took a deep bow, Lucy mirroring her a moment later.

"Thank you!" her sister called, jumping down from her throne to give a shallow curtsey in return. "That was wonderful!"

Her smile was as bright as ever, no trace of their discussion left on her face, perpetually happy the way no one else Susan had ever met managed to be.

* * *

"Where's Edmund anyway?" Lucy asked as the last of the members left the Great Hall.

"He went riding," Susan replied, pulling her shoes off. Her feet ached from the pressure.

Lucy glanced incredulously through the open door to the balcony, where the sky was well on the way to match the darkness of Susan's hair. "It's nearly dark," she pointed out.

"He's probably back by now."

"Probably," Lucy allowed, pulling her hair back from her face. There were dark shadows forming under her eyes, as strong and firm as roots reaching beneath the ground, and just as reluctant to be removed. They all had them these days. "And Peter?"

Susan blinked. "I'm not sure, actually. I suppose he might have gone too."

"How lucky we're not his social secretaries," Lucy commented with a laugh. "What a mess there would be."

"Also rather demeaning for our positions," Susan replied, and yawned, hurriedly snapping her jaws closed when Mr Beaver entered the room unannounced, but he was too busy bowing to notice.

Lucy almost jumped off the dais in her hurry to greet him. "Oh, hello!"

"Your Majesties," he said, "there is a situation." His favourite hat was in his hand, and he appeared to be gripping it tightly, as though the warmth of the wool and the threads of his wife's affections could give him strength.

"Yes, there generally is," said Susan, leaning back on the throne as though the unrelenting stiffness could somehow transfer itself to her.

"Archenland or Calormen?" Lucy asked, and then, "oh, Archenland, of course. I am sorry, you've only just returned."

"You can never trust an Archenlander to keep his promise," said the beaver in a disgusted tone. "Even the royals, for all that they're of good Narnian stock if you go back far enough. Abandoned their homeland, didn't they?"

"But it's only been a week since the argeement!" Susan protested.

"They expect us to feel safe in our beds, for a country of their size must rely on the element of surprise. I'm told there's already been a significant increase of troops on patrol at their side of the border, violating the terms of the treaty."

Lucy frowned. "It may be a simple misunderstanding. After all, Lune has always been friendly."

But Mr Beaver hesitated. "It may be the case that he has been misled by his border lords. Some of them are rather hostile to Narnia, especially the Duke of Stormness Head, and wish to extend their territories further north." He did not sound entirely convinced.

"But that's Lord Peridan's father! He sent me one of these daggers!" Lucy cried, gesturing at her belt, from which hung a fine array of sharp steel, and a velvet pouch for her healing cordial.

"Many have been suspicious," said the beaver carefully, "of King Edmund's – return."

"So it's our fault?" Her gaze turned instantly to Susan.

Mr Beaver hurried to assure them otherwise. "All alliances fall apart in the end. I am truly sorry to be the bearer of such news, Your Majesties, but my contacts were quite clear on the matter, and they have never failed me yet."

Susan opened her mouth, and hurriedly closed it again, breath whooshing out of her in a gasp of realisation. "And of course if we send troops they will claim it is an attack against them."

There was silence for a moment.

Mr Beaver pressed one paw against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, and in a moment he looked like a blanket of thick fur of the type commonly worn amongst the giants. Finally, he said, "We could hide them in the mountains. That way, if their presence is discovered, it can be dismissed as a training exercise to make them accustomed to various conditions."

"I'll go down and tell the commander. Only, who shall we send? Oreius is ill, and Lord Peridan is out of the question, of course, but –"

Susan interrupted her. "I doubt you'll find Lord Peridan anywhere near Cair Paravel. He'll be heading home as swiftly as his horse can take him, but one of the sentries at the border will most likely stop him. He'll not reveal his true allegiances just yet."

Lucy had grown pale, and her words were slow and heavy. "They won't stop him."

"He's clever enough to have some chance of slipping through, of course, but they've been ordered not to let anyone pass without written permission from one of us, signed and sealed with the royal seal."

Lucy would not look directly at her. "Yes. And so they'll let him though."

"Hardly. We'd agreed we wouldn't – " Lucy looked up at her, her eyes wet. _Oh._

"He said his brother had been injured," she said, "dying, even. I would have hated to be kept away from any of you in such a situation."

"And so you let him go." said Susan, blinking back the image of similar requests. Had he written to her as well, and having failed, tried again with Lucy? All such requests had blended together into one long one, because of course everyone suddenly got the urge to holiday when it was most inconvenient.

"May I suggest Sir Rogin?" Mr Beaver interjected, after which they both turned to him in surprise. Susan had mostly forgotten he was there. "He's certain to remain loyal."

Rogin was an able enough commander, but he despised Archenland. "He's apt to be too rash. He'll relish it too much."

"I think one of us ought to go," said Lucy thoughtfully. "That way, we could disguise some troops as guards. Besides, it would make more of an impression."

"It won't make much difference. He sees us as children." Most foreigners did, especially their rulers, accustomed to regencies and councils whenever the rulers were underage.

"We are children," Lucy reminded, frowning slightly.

Susan had to admit that was true. "But we can't act as such. We're expected to rule, not play, and so that is what we have to do."

She hadn't played at anything for a long time, except perhaps at being Queen.

"It shouldn't be Peter. He's been having too much fun at the northern border; it's time for one of us to have a chance."

"It's not a game!" Susan protested, but acknowledged that having the High King present might seem too suspicious. "Edmund should go, prove he's still his old self."

"I'll go with him, just in case," said Lucy with a nod, and then, shooting a quick sideways look at Mr Beaver, added, "We should take care of certain affairs beforehand."

Having presumably caught the look, Mr Beaver smiled faintly, and bid them a warm goodbye, carefully slipping his hat back onto his head, struggling to slip it into place with his paws. Then he left the room, turning his back almost immediately.

"It'll have to be tonight then."

* * *

They had just reached Edmund's bedchamber when they saw him coming towards them from the other side of the hallway, flanked by a leopard from the Guard and Lord Istmul.

"I lost track of time a bit," he said, smiling sheepishly. "They caught up with me."

"Indeed, Your Majesties," said Lord Istmul with a bow, edging backwards. The leopard inclined her head to the side so that her long pale whiskers brushed a shoulder, and agreed.

Susan gave them a faint smile, but they still appeared expectant. At last Istmul seemed to give up, and retreating a few steps, turned around and walked briskly towards the staircase.

Oken too moved deftly away to give them some privacy, stepping to nearly block the entrance to a side corridor.

"We have to do it tonight," said Lucy to Edmund, eyes still locked on the guard. "Lune's starting to cause problems."

Edmund blinked. "Do we know enough? If we do it wrong-" He sounded hopelessly young in a way Susan hadn't heard anyone sound for a long time. They only kept company with adults, nowadays.

"That'll always be an issue," Lucy said, biting her lip. "I can't remember the last time I did something feeling fully informed."

"We have to do it though," Susan said. "We have to do all those things we'd never thought we would. Why should this be any different?"

"Because it affects our subjects more acutely than the others did," Edmund said.

"More than the Army? There have been wars and conflicts aplenty, and there will be plenty more still, perhaps very soon. And so many fall in battle."

"Wars affect everyone, regardless of species," Edmund pointed out. "And the Army fairly equally. This won't. No risk of something happening to, I don't know, the bears."

"Madame Ness says there's no risk of anything happening to anyone." Susan said, not elaborating.

Edmund understood it anyway. "She doesn't think it'll work at all, does she?"

"She's been wrong before," Lucy insisted stubbornly, but for once it lacked conviction. "She'll be wrong again."

"We should talk to Peter first."

Susan agreed, and did not wait for a reply before she too followed Lord Peridan's footsteps back to her own chambers, and throwing herself onto her bed.

She didn't have much time, but it would have to do.

* * *

Predictably, Peter agreed. Getting him to change his mind about anything had always been an exercise in futility.

"Aslan gave us these positions, Ed. He trusts us to make the right decisions."

"What if the right decision is _not_ to do this?" Edmund said, perching on the arm of a chair which Susan knew from experience looked more comfortable than it actually was.

"It certainly won't be not to do anything. We're not philosophers; we can't waste our lives away wondering about the meaning of life, or something. We have to act before someone invades and our people are enslaved again."

"And if we're the ones causing them harm?"

"We can't know!" Peter insisted. "How do you propose to go about it? Do make sure to tell us when you start seeing the future, Ed. I'm sure it'll be a great relief."

"Don't argue!" Lucy cried. "It won't help at all."

Peter looked down. "Sorry. The stress is beginning to get to me."

"I think it's getting to us all," Edmund said. "So's the insomnia."

"We can get sleep after this is done," Lucy said, though she didn't sound particularly sure about it.

"If it works, which is doubtful."

"Such an optimist," Susan said dryly. "It's the only option we have."

"We'll do it after dinner then," Peter announced, sparing a quick glance at the clock at the mantelpiece. "We don't know how it'll take."

* * *

"You should eat some more," Lucy said when Edmund placed his cutlery down and leaned back in his chair with an air of finality.

"I don't have much of an appetite today," Edmund answered, giving her a weak smile.

"Nerves?" she asked, prodding cautiously at her food. "What is this, anyway?"

"If we told you," Peter said laughing, "you wouldn't eat it."

Lucy gave her plate a long dubious look. "I'm done anyway," she declared.

"You should eat some more," Edmund mocked, waving his cup in the direction of the faun serving them. Susan thought he might be some sort of relative to Tumnus, a cousin perhaps.

She thought they had had a cousin once, a very long time ago. She wondered what had happened to him. Maybe it had been the Witch, or the bitter cold of those first few days.

"I've eaten more than you," Lucy said, sipping at her own diluted wine.

Edmund lifted his glass up, and took a tentative sip. "Is this the same wine as before?"

Peter nodded, raising his glass. "To success?" he offered.

"Yes," Susan said. "Today and always."

They echoed it, clinging their glasses together in the middle, but when Edmund pulled his glass back, it splashed, red staining his doublet as swiftly as blood from a battlefield wound. He glanced down disinterestedly.

"I suppose I'd better change."

"It's hardly a state banquet," Susan pointed out, pulling her chair closer to the table so that he could pass more easily. "Do hurry up."

"Yes," he agreed, but made no move to leave, instead drinking up the remnants of his wine in slow, easy gulps.

The light made his eyes look like bruises on his face, paler from being turned towards the light. It seemed like a strangely long moment, like walking into a wardrobe and never walking out again.

There was a sharp clang when the glass hit the table, and Edmund turned away.

"We'll come to your room," Peter called after him, but he didn't reply.

* * *

Susan knocked twice, carefully, stepping back to wait for an answer. When none seemed forthcoming, she knocked again, harder.

There was no answer but silence so, exchanging a brief look with Peter, she grasped the door handle, and twisted it, pushing forward as she did so. The door creaked forwards, opening up into darkness.

They stepped into the gloom, squinting. There was merely a little light coming through the windows and the fireplace, but it was enough to see that the room was empty.

Lucy stepped outside, and returned swiftly, carrying a large platter full of candles. The corridor behind her was unexpectedly dark.

"They won't miss them much, I suppose," she said, placing it carefully on Edmund's desk, having elbowed a stack of papers out of the way until they crashed to the floor in a haphazard heap.

"He should still be here." Peter said. "I did say we were meeting here."

"Perhaps he didn't hear," Lucy suggested, leaping up at the knock. "Maybe that's him."

"Ed wouldn't knock at his own door," Susan pointed out as a handful of courtiers entered, carrying buckets. "What's all this?"

"Supplies," said her sister, still holding the door as if she were a footman and not a queen.

"We don't need three pounds of chalk," she protested, judging at a glance. "Nor do I recall drunkenness being required."

"It says we're supposed to pour the wine as a libation," said Peter, rereading the instructions. "It's supposed to entice the spirits to come."

"So that we can banish them?" Susan asked incredulously. "I certainly wouldn't come."

"They don't know what's going to happen," Lucy insisted, peering down the corridor after them. "That's the whole point."

"I think maybe we should do this outside," said Peter, turning the page. "We're supposed to pour the wine into the ground."

"Pardon?" Lucy whirled around, one hand still resting on the doorknob.

"Look," he said, holding the book out towards her, fingers pointing to a large paragraph of minuscule letters. "It has to stay within the boundaries of the chalk."

"It would probably seep along the floorboards and through the cracks. We'd ruin whatever is below here, at any rate." Susan said, mentally attempting to map the castle. There was Mister Tumnus' room, but that was further east, so perhaps the armoury, or one of the larger storage rooms.

"It would be a shame to ruin this carpet," Lucy added, prodding it with her toe. "Calormene, is it?"

"Avran. So's the cushion," Susan said, tilting her chin up to point. "It's mostly Sheep wool."

"Should we have it, then?" she asked, momentarily diverted, though still moving forwards to their ample supplies.

"They don't mind it," Peter said. "It prevents them overheating in summer." He snapped the book shut. "We're going to need a knife,"

"I have one," Lucy said, hand flying halfway to her side as if by instinct. She stopped it there, and shifted it back down to grasp the handle of a nearby bucket. There were bottles of wine inside it, laid protectively inside a sea of little shards of ice, coloured brightly to prevent recollections of the Witch's bitter winter. The bottles came in different sizes, tall and tiny, dark as nightmares or lighter even than the midday sun over Cair Paravel.

There was even, to the side, a bottle of dark glass covered with a bare coating of dust, which appeared to be sailors' rum.

"We asked for wine," Susan pointed out. Unexpectedly, Peter grinned, teeth showing as sharp as a hungry shark's.

"We'll have it to celebrate," he announced, and stooped to pick up the bucket of chalk. And, picking up the last bucket of cool water, sloshing against the sides, and spilling slightly to run down her gown and into her shoe, Susan followed them.

She stopped in the doorway, shivers running down her spine, and looked back into the room. The candles glowed happily. She laid the bucket on the ground, and walked back to blow them out, watching the flames flicker and dance, all resistant to her breath, dying one by one like enemies falling on a battlefield.

It was dark inside again when Susan picked up her bucket and followed her siblings, waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs.

* * *

"We should wait for Edmund," Lucy said as they stepped outside, blinking hard to make her eyes adjust.

"He's clearly occupied," Peter said, pulling down his sleeves. "We don't have time to delay this."

"What if something's happened?"

"The palace is guarded," Peter answered, not mentioning that that hadn't prevented anything before.  
"He's probably just preparing for tomorrow. The soldiers will need to know." He reached out and laid a hand carefully on Lucy's shoulder, squeezing slightly.

"We should all be here to do this," Lucy said, so focused on avoiding a tree that she walked almost directly into Susan's path. "Sorry," she added, giving her a brief smile before turning back to their brother, "but it's important enough."

"We don't know what else might have happened," Susan said, looking back at the castle.

"The trees are so still," said Lucy suddenly, face turning.

She was right; they were as unnaturally unmoving as the spiritless trees outside Narnia, their only movement coming from the faint blow of wind. They did not dance, and with a shock Susan realised that she could not remember when they had last done so. Not since before Edmund had first died, perhaps, for they had stopped then, and she had been too preoccupied to see them do so afterwards. They stood guard like silent sentinels, cold as the stone Jadis had wrought.

"They're just asleep, Lu," said Peter, sounding decidedly unsure. "It is night, after all."

Somewhere in the woods a wolf howled, and next to Susan Lucy shivered in her thin dress, pulling her arms close to her body in an attempt to retain the heat. They had forgotten to bring coats, remembering the warm summer nights barely a month or so ago, but the nights were turning gradually colder; and it felt as though the cold was seeping in through the air and reaching down to their very bones.

"I suppose," Lucy acknowledged. "But that has never stopped them before."

They did not have anything to say to that, so a while passed in somewhat stilted silence as they stepped forwards carefully, feeling cautiously for small stones in their path.

Some time later they came to the clearing where she and Lucy had struggled with the books recently. It looked different at night, the trees casting looming shadows across the dull grass.

There was the sound of hooves from behind them, thudding across the wide path, and they whirled around, Susan's hand flying to her belt, where sharp blades of varying length hung. Peter's sword was already in his hand, the light of the moon reflecting off the silver in a shine that seemed almost blinding.

Susan found herself wishing for her bow and arrows, though her aim with knives was almost as accurate.

A dark centaur trotted into the clearing. Susan couldn't see her face, only the swirls on her patterned vest of her legion, but she saw Peter's posture relax, tension vanishing from the set of his shoulders as quickly as it had come, and breathed in heavily.

"Your Majesties," said the centaur, inclining her head briefly. The bells in her hair jingled, half-hidden by the curls.

"Good evening, Orla," said Peter calmly. "What brings you out here at this time of day?"

"Ceres is unseasonably bright tonight, Your Majesties," Orla said, tilting her head briefly. "It denotes a time of crisis."

"We're aware. It's being dealt with." Her tone was very firm, more dismissive than Lucy usually let herself become.

"And we will succeed in this," Susan added.

Orla bowed slightly, bending her forelegs slightly so that they bobbed up and down like flowers swaying in the wind.

"Their plans will be foiled," she said, and then she was gone, as quickly as she had come, retreating until it was just her torso and head Susan could see, and then just the leaves rustling in her path.

"Edmund's just too suspicious," Peter commented. "The centaurs are usually right."

"But do we want her to be?" Lucy asked, opening the book at the bookmarked page and running her eyes over the instructions one last time.

"We hardly want this to fail."

"She sounded pretty serious," Susan said, crouching down to help Lucy, who had taken a handful of powdered chalk and was spreading it out on the ground. It stuck to her hands just as easily as it did to the grass, and when she reached up to brush her fringe back from her face it came off to stain her hair, falling down onto her eyelashes. Lucy blinked furiously, but it stayed, as visible as Calormene kohl.

"It seems a bit lopsided," Lucy said when they had finished, stepping back to look their work over critically. "It's meant to be one large circle, divided into two even sections."

"I know," Susan said, looking down. The divide was almost perfectly in the middle, though the chalk on the outside one section looked fainter, brushed away by the wind. "That's what it is."

She reached back down for more chalk, but her hand brushed Peter's as he pulled out, and then stepped forwards into the circle to rub it into the grass.

"I think it's probably fine now," he announced after a minute, stepping carefully over the line. "Where does the wine go, again?"

"One of the sides," Lucy said, not bothering to consult the book. "Watch that it doesn't go over, it would probably erase the chalk."

"I know what I'm doing," Peter insisted, reaching for a bottle of faun wine and unscrewing the cap. He glanced down at the label. "Fine vintage we're wasting on them."

"We're planning to expel them from the country," Susan said, reaching down for another bottle. "The least we can do is send them off in style."

"They tried to kill us," Peter protested, taking a long sip. A drop of it ran out of the corner of his mouth and down his throat as he swallowed, disappearing under his collar. He wiped his chin with one hand, the other still wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

"That's not what it's for," Lucy laughed, reaching out for it, but she took a sip too before tilting it upside down in the middle of the circle. It gushed out like a river, flowing out along the grass. Under the feeble light they had, the marked ground looked black, burned or like too much dried blood on a battlefield.

It did not seem like something which would draw anyone to them, but maybe they followed wine like sharks did blood, smelling it out under the dark depths of the ocean.

Susan did not drink from hers, but crouched down to pour it by the outskirts of the half-circle, especially on the side further from her siblings where few drops had reached at all.

"Salt around the edges?" she asked when she had finished.

Lucy gave her a brief nod. "Of their side, and especially strong in the middle. Apparently it's so that they can't get out."

"That's perfectly fine," said Susan. "But what do we do with them once they're trapped? Since they're spirits, they probably won't have proper bodies."

"You can't kill a dryad by attacking its manifestation, only by felling its tree," said Peter. "But they probably require some form of nutrition. Maybe we can starve them out."

"But sooner or later the salt will seep into the ground," said Susan, reaching for the little bag of it they had been given from the kitchens. "And then it'll have been for nothing at all."

"It doesn't say anything about killing them," Lucy protested, gesturing helplessly to the book. "Maybe we're not supposed to want them dead."

"We need to talk to them first," Susan said, sighing. "Since we don't actually know that they did anything wrong," she continued, giving Peter a very pointed look. He didn't seem to notice.

"Ed's so rarely wrong," he said instead.

* * *

When it was finally finished, and they were stood safely inside the half-circle, Peter drew out a long ceremonial dagger from his belt, and ignored their protests.

"It should be me," Lucy cried. "I feel like I've hardly done anything; it's not right!"

Peter smiled down at her, a bit weakly. "Then I've done even less. We couldn't have done this without you."

"Maybe we should share the task," Susan said, "after all, it concerns all of us."

"They've had enough of your blood. And I won't give them that much, anyway."

"I thought the wine was supposed to entice them here," Lucy whispered. "Where are they?"

"Maybe we just can't see them," Susan answered in a similarly quiet voice. "Why are we whispering?"

"It seems like the right thing to do," said her sister as Peter dipped two fingers under his shirt cuff and dragged it up his forearm. "It just – feels like we shouldn't be discovered, not like this."

"It's the combination of blood and wine that they want," he said, and without warning, pushed the tip of the blade against his skin, until his blood seemed to spurt out of the sides of the wound, almost black in the feeble light. Peter crouched low on the ground, holding out his arm so that the droplets fell into the middle of the uninhabited circle, other hand squeezing it to make them fall quicker.

"And now we wait," he said when he had stood up, and wiped off the remaining blood with his sleeve, though he still held it slightly awkwardly.

"Yes," Susan murmured, and looked around, but there was no sign of movement.

"Edmund!" Lucy called out joyfully, and would have run to him had Peter not caught her by the wrist.

"Careful," he said. "I think we have to stay within the boundaries until it's over." And he raised his voice to say to Edmund, "I think you might be too late for this, but we did wait a while."

"We didn't know how long it might take," Lucy added, shrugging slightly. "And we both need some rest before tomorrow. Groggy commanders tend to be rather useless."

Edmund did not reply, but continued moving towards them with uneasy steps. The light made him looked washed-out, almost as pale as he had been in death, all the colour seemingly bleached out of his already light skin.

He continued forward in unusually even steps until he came to the edge of the chalk lines, then stepped easily over them into the empty part.

For a minute, Susan just blinked at him in astonishment.

"No," said Peter. "You have to come this side," but he sounded unsure.

Edmund only smiled slowly, silent and surprisingly ancient.

_No_, Susan thought, and dug her nails into her hands. The pain was instant and sharp, penetrating her foggy mind. _No,_ she thought again, and was astonished to hear it out loud until she realised it hadn't been her voice at all.

"Edmund," Lucy said frantically. "You can't stay there, they'll come soon, and then -"

Peter laid a hand carefully on her shoulder, grasping it as if for support. "Lu," he said quietly.

Lucy dropped her satchel of left over salt, arms flying as she whirled around and fell into Peter's arms. Upturned, it flew forwards, carried along by the wind, and flecks of it hit Edmund, who abruptly screamed.

Susan could do nothing but watch, as the salt seemed to dissolve on Edmund's skin as it shifted and twisted in on itself.

_Aslan_, she thought in a panic, because whatever that thing was, it still held the appearance of her younger brother, and without meaning to, she found that she had stepped forwards, arms held out to embrace it.

"Susan, that's not –" Peter shouted, pushing Lucy away so abruptly she staggered, but it was too late. Edmund had already attached himself to her, and Susan could feel the heat flow up her arms, singeing the tips of her hair.

He – it – seemed to shake against her, and then suddenly she was holding onto pure air, as if trying to capture the wind. It seemed to take a lot of effort to pull her arms back to her sides.

She tried to blink away the tears, scrubbing at her eyes furiously.

* * *

After a while, she became aware of Lucy's arms around her neck, and Peter's cradling both their waists, but it as a long time until she felt she could breathe properly again.

When Susan did finally raise her head, she saw of flash of golden light, and pulled away from them both to see Aslan properly. But where she expected to see his brilliant mane, ruffled by the breeze, she saw only the silent trees, and above them the lightening sky; the dull grey and blue streaked with pale yellow.

Lucy didn't even turn around, but then her sister had always known him best, and Susan had always felt just as awed and strange in his presence as she had in the grand churches with their mother a lifetime ago.

"We should go back," Susan said quietly. Even that much felt like an extreme effort. They had stayed out for almost the whole night, and her eyes felt heavy and grotty, like massive stones in her face.

"Yes," Peter agreed, but they stayed there for a very long time, and the world was light again as they stumbled back to the castle with heavy hearts.


End file.
